


At The Center

by IShouldBeWriting



Category: Canaanite Religion, קבלה | Kabbala, תנ"ך | Tanakh
Genre: Chesed, Collection: Purimgifts Day 3, Gen, Gevurah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:37:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6334639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShouldBeWriting/pseuds/IShouldBeWriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anat's view of her place within the wheel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At The Center

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daegaer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/gifts).



I stand at the center.

Calf deep in the thick cochineal syrup of life.   
My hands upraised, offering up the frenzied exaltation of this ageless cycle.   
My sex swells, the excitement of battle urging.  
Copulation, consummation, conception, continuation.

To Death, I yield the People’s portion.   
With joyous sword have I split him.   
With sieve of silver winnow away his chaff.   
To holy fire consign his body,  
and on the millstone grind him down to dust. 

This powder –all which remains of the most cunning and proud –  
have I scattered, food for his own winged servants, innumerable and black.

I stand between.

Drenched in the wine of the People,  
I am in turn the supplicant,  
begging mercy on the People’s behalf,  
and justice’s swift brutality.

I delight in my part.  
Sorrow, joy, mania, reason;   
they are as food to my soul.  
So long as they reside within the People’s hearts,  
So too will I reside, treading forth with my partners in our dance.

It is ageless, this dance in which we three are partnered.  
Ageless as the sun, soil, and stars.

We are foil to humanity’s fear of things they cannot comprehend.

Spring’s sweet songbird.  
Winter’s biting wind.  
With gravid body do I feed their hunger.  
With blood like honey slake their thirst.

In return, their daughters bear my name.  
Anath, Anit Anahita, Anat.  
It is my name the People call as they ride into war.  
My hands - dyed red with life’s richness -  
are set as a seal upon their hearts.

I go now to the bringer of storms.   
Together we will return the rains.

What more could I want?


End file.
